“If you don’t want it, sell it,” she’d said about the house and furniture. “Donate my clothes to the women’s shelter. You know the one, The Second Chance place.”
He’d swallowed hard, holding back tears that had threatened to spill down his cheeks.
“And my wigs.” She’d touched the scarf on her head. “Bring those to the cancer center. They’ll know where they’re needed most.”
“Of course,” he’d said. “Whatever you want.”
When she’d finished going over her last wishes, right down to the hymns she’d wanted sung at the funeral, he’d walked out of her bedroom, no longer able to contain the overflowing tears streaming down his face. He’d made his way to the stairs, passing old photos from his first day of kindergarten to college graduation and beyond, all framed and hanging throughout the narrow hallway. Behind the pictures, the wallpaper had yellowed and peeled, marking in another way the passage of time.
But his mother had never gotten around to sorting through the boxes in the basement. She’d done a lot in those last few months, probably too much, but this was where her efforts had ended. So here he was, kneeling on the cement floor among the Easter decorations, the plastic eggs she’d placed quarters in until he’d turned nine years old, the shiny green grass that had lined his baskets and would be found on the kitchen table and floor long after the holiday had ended. It was amidst these happy memories that he’d found the bag containing his father’s personal effects.
He sank until his bottom rested on the cold dusty floor, the clear plastic bag in his lap. He didn’t open it right away, but he could see there wasn’t much inside—a brown leather wallet, a black cell phone, a gold ring, a silver watch. Why would his father’s things be there in the basement in a box of Easter decorations? The only sense he could make of it was that his mother had packed them with the decorations without realizing it. She’d been in a state of shock that spring, gripped by terrible grief. They’d stopped celebrating Easter after that. Jake had been nine years old, old enough not to believe in the Easter Bunny anyway.
When he felt ready, or at least as ready as he’d ever be, he opened the bag. He took the wallet out first, the leather smooth with wear. There was sixty bucks inside, an expired credit card, a gas card, and a picture of Jake as a toddler sitting in his mother’s lap on their front stoop. He didn’t remember the picture being taken, but there was no mistaking by the laughing smiles on their faces that they’d been happy.
He put everything back in the wallet, including the money and the photo, and set it aside. Next he grabbed the cell phone, noticing the scrapes on the back. The battery was dead. He knew it would be, but still he tried to turn it on anyway, wondering how he would feel if he were able to hear his father’s prerecorded voice after all this time. Would it hurt too much? Did cell phones even have voice-mail back then? He was sure he could find out. He did a lot of research as a journalist. It wouldn’t be hard to dig around, search for an old charger, plug it in and listen.
He set the phone down, feeling an old ache mixed with excitement at the possibility of reconnecting with his old man in some small way.
He pulled the last two items out of the bag. The wristwatch, the kind with the metal band that pinched your skin and pulled your arm hair out whenever you took it on or off, and the championship football ring his father had worn on his pinky finger. The knuckle on his ring finger had been freakishly large after having broken it on numerous occasions playing the sport.
Jake rubbed his own misshapen knuckles, similarly injured from having played the game his dad had loved. Jake had suffered hit after hard hit, absorbing the blows to his kidneys and ribs, the aches and pains in his hips and knees, the strain of his shoulder, the broken bones in his hand, leaving everything he’d had on the field, pushing to break his father’s records, wanting him to be proud, only to fall short in the end.
Now, Jake slipped the championship ring onto his pinky finger, wanting to feel close to him again the way he had on the football field when he was in high school, closer in a way than he had in a longtime.
* * *
Forty-eight hours later, Jake was at his desk in the small cubicle he occupied in the newspaper’s office, the old Nokia cell phone in front of him. He’d searched online for some time, finally locating a charger that was compatible. He’d had to pay for the entire vintage box set—another phone, a new battery, and what he really needed, a charger—spending a couple hundred bucks. But he didn’t care about the money. You couldn’t hang a price on matters of the heart.
The old Nokia had taken the new battery and several minutes to charge until the screen flickered once, twice, and then lit up. Jake wiped his clammy hands on his pants before picking it up. The features were limited, nothing in voice-mail, and after pushing a few buttons and playing around with it, the only thing he could find was a single phone number he didn’t recognize. The screen flickered again, and he jotted the number down quickly before he lost it. The phone was obviously damaged. He continued playing with it while he had the chance, searching for the answers to the questions the boy inside of him wanted to ask, the how and why types of questions that, when dealing with a tragic accident, there were no real answers to.
The phone died two minutes later. He pressed buttons and then he shook it because that was what you did when your phone wasn’t working. But no amount of pressing and shaking and charging would resuscitate it.
To say he was disappointed wouldn’t even come close to describing the heaviness weighing inside his chest. He stared at the number he’d written down, wondering why his father wouldn’t have had their old house number as the ICE contact. Why weren’t there any other numbers listed? It was strange.
Because Jake was who he was, he knew he couldn’t let it go. Besides, he’d come this far, so why the hell not? He picked up his phone and dialed the number only to learn it was no longer in service. He wasn’t deterred. A good journalist was only as good as his sources. He pulled his chair closer to the desk and typed an e-mail. Who did this phone number belong to in 1994? He typed the ten-digit number and hit Send.
“Knock, knock,” Dennis said, and poked his head inside Jake’s cubicle. “I’ve got a bunch of dead birds in a town near the Poconos. It could make national news. It’s yours if you want it.”
Jake spun around in his chair to face him. Dennis had one of those long faces that were all sharp points and edges. He had a hard look about him, but he was all soft and squishy on the inside. He’d attended Jake’s mom’s funeral, and you would’ve thought it was Dennis’s mother they were burying by the amount of tears and compassion he’d showed for Jake. Jake was touched. Dennis was a good guy. And Jake had had months to prepare himself for the loss, whereas most of the people at the service—a few family members and friends—had not.
“This has you written all over it,” Dennis said.
“What kind of birds? How many?”
Dennis stepped into the tiny office, big enough for a desk and chair and not much else. “Snow geese. A hundred, maybe more.” He checked the sheet of paper in his hand. “In someplace called Mountain Springs.”
“Let me see that,” Jake said, and Dennis handed him the sheet of paper. It couldn’t be the same Mountain Springs. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered.
Jake’s e-mail pinged. He turned back around to check it. Kim was fast, he’d give her that. She worked for an insurance company in the IT department. She was the best damn hacker Jake had ever met.
“Is that an old Nokia?” Dennis asked, and picked up the black cell phone from Jake’s desk. “Man, I haven’t seen one of these in years. It’s like a dinosaur compared to phones nowadays.”
Jake mumbled something. He wasn’t sure what because he wasn’t paying attention to Dennis. The sight of Kim’s e-mail address in his in-box had spiked his pulse. He didn’t know if it was because he was anxious about what she’d found or the simple fact that she’d responded. Most of their interactions were through e-mails, carefull
y protected against spyware. But just last month he’d taken her to lunch as a way of thanking her for helping him with some information on another story he’d been working on. He had to admit the times when he’d been in her presence there was something about her voice that had made his heart race, something about the curve of her lips, the sway of her hips that had the potential to knock him sideways and leave him breathless.
“What’s the story on it?” Dennis asked about the phone, turning it over, running his fingers over the scratches like Jake had done.
“It’s nothing,” he said absently, and opened Kim’s e-mail. It read Northampton County area code.
He knew that much. Whose number? He typed and hit Send.
I’m working on it.
Call my cell as soon as you find out.
He took the old cell phone from Dennis’s hand and shoved it in his computer bag. Maybe the universe was trying to tell him something. Maybe he’d get some answers after all. Maybe he wasn’t completely mad and wasting his time. Maybe.
He packed up his laptop and grabbed his jacket.
“Where are you going?” Dennis asked.
“Mountain Springs,” he said.
CHAPTER FIVE
Myna was standing on the pier wrapped in a cardigan. She held the collar of her sweater tight against the breeze coming off the water. She’d been standing there for the last thirty minutes waiting, watching the brown pelicans dive-bomb for small fish. When she’d first moved to Florida, she’d been fascinated by the prehistoric-looking birds, feeling as though she’d stepped onto the set of Jurassic Park. She’d taken pictures and videos of them on the bay or flying past the balcony of the condo, captivated by their oversize bills, the large folds of their wings. She took some photos now. Pop was delighted to have them, and it gave her something to do, a welcome distraction.
She’d rushed home after her last class had ended, showering quickly only to have to sit and wait, and then later, she’d paced the length of the living room before making her way to the dock. Ben had never walked out on her before. Sure, they’d fought in the past, but not like this. Their fights were more of the typical nothing kinds of things couples fought about after having lived together for a period of time—who forgot to put the cap back on the toothpaste, who left the milk out, where was the remote control for the TV?
But they’d never fought about their relationship or the future of it.
After a few minutes more, and half a dozen photos, Ben’s boat finally came into view, making its way back from the open sea. The closer he got, the more shallow her breathing became. She pulled the sweater tightly once again, holding it closed at her neck. Ben was sure to have noticed her, but he hadn’t acknowledged her presence. Instead, he concentrated on steering the vessel into the slip, giving the last bit of instructions to the family who’d chartered his boat for the afternoon. His first mate and friend, Pete, jumped onto the pier to tie the forty-foot fishing boat down for the night.
“Hey, Myna,” Pete said, and waved. He helped the family’s two boys onto the dock and then offered his hand to their mother. The father spent an extra few minutes with Ben.
“Good trip?” Myna asked the family as they passed by.
“Fabulous,” the woman said. “But I’m so glad I took something for motion sickness. All that rocking.” She motioned to her husband, who looked a little green. He’d finished talking with Ben and had joined his family on the pier.
Ben and Pete busied themselves preparing for the next charter in the morning. They exchanged a few words, some of which Myna overheard.
“I’ll finish tying her down,” Pete said about the boat. “Go on and talk to her. She’s here, isn’t she?”
Ben put his hand on Pete’s shoulder, a way of saying thank you. Then Ben made his way over to her. He lifted his baseball cap and wiped his brow.
She didn’t know what to say. Maybe he didn’t either. She extended her hand, a peace offering. He took it. Slowly, they walked the next couple blocks toward home in silence. Some of the desperation she’d felt earlier, the unease, faded away. This had to be a sign he’d forgiven her, saw things her way.
They stepped through the door, and she wrapped her arms around his waist. He smelled like the ocean breeze mixed with the faint scent of fish and sweat, but not a bad scent by any means.
He pressed his cheek to hers and whispered in her ear, “I guess this means you’ve changed your mind.”
She stepped back, her hands lingering on his hips. “I thought you changed your mind.”
The tension between them returned, bubbling and hot. She stared at him.
He took her wrists and removed her hands from his hips. “I’m taking a shower.” He turned to go.
“Wait.” She was really starting to hate the way he kept walking away from her. She followed him into the bedroom. He’d already turned on the TV. He couldn’t be in a room without the darn television turned on. It was funny how something that had never agitated her before could suddenly make her want to explode.
He strode to the master bath. “I’m going to shower and clear my head. It was a long day.” He disappeared behind the door.
She dropped onto the bed and crossed her arms. The shower turned on. What was wrong with her? Any other woman would be thrilled if the man she loved had proposed. And in some ways she was happy.
But in a bigger way, she wasn’t.
* * *
“Tell us again,” a seven-year-old Myna had said, poking Pop in his side. He’d been sitting on the bench next to her. Linnet had been sitting on the other side of him. They were waiting for the arrival of the first snow geese on the dam. It was late winter and the air was cold. Myna and Linnet were wrapped in their winter coats and scarves. Myna breathed into her hands to keep her fingers from going numb.
“If you insist,” Pop said, his red cheeks rising up and meeting his eyes when he smiled.
“I do insist,” Myna said, and Linnet leaned forward, nodding in agreement.
“It was a warm spring day,” he said.
“And you were sitting in the canoe with Mommy,” Linnet said.
He held up his pointer finger. “But she wasn’t your mommy, yet. First, she had to agree to be my wife.”
“What about the birds?” Myna asked.
“Right. The birds.” He continued. “Most of the flock had thinned by then. But there must’ve been fifty snow geese left on the water. They were all around us. It was very romantic.”
“Because the birds were in pairs,” Myna said.
“Because snow geese mate for life,” Linnet said.
“That’s right,” he said, the smile never leaving his face. “Your mother was wearing a yellow sundress. She had a sweater draped over her shoulders. She was always cold, even under a hot sun. She was so very young and so very pretty.”
“And you were scared,” Linnet said.
“Because you were old,” Myna said.
He pretended to be offended. “I wasn’t that old.” He looked down for a moment. “I was twelve years older than her. And yes, I was scared. What if she said no?” He put his hand over his heart in an overly dramatic way, and the girls giggled. “I reached into my jacket pocket for the small box, the one with the diamond ring inside. But it wasn’t there.”
“And you panicked,” Linnet said.
“I did. I thought I might’ve lost it and stood up too fast, forgetting I was sitting in a canoe. The boat rocked left and right and left again.”
“Mommy held on to the sides, and you fell out,” Myna said.
“I lost my balance and fell right into the water. But thank goodness the water was shallow and only came up to my waist. You can imagine how embarrassed I was.”
“And Mommy laughed,” Linnet said.
“She did. She said I was the funniest, most handsome man she’d ever met.”
“And that’s when you remembered the box was in your pants pocket,” Myna said.
“Right. I had moved it thinking it would be
safer in my pants pocket, and because I was so nervous, I’d forgotten. So there I was standing in the water, soaked through to the skin, and I thought it was now or never. I took the ring out right there and then, and I said, ‘Claire Reynolds, would you do me the honor of marrying me?’”
“And she said yes!” Myna squealed.
“And jumped into the water and into your arms,” Linnet said.
He laughed. “Who’s telling this story anyway?”
“We all are,” Myna said. “It’s a fun story to tell.”
He put his arms around both girls’ shoulders and pulled them close.
“And you lived happily ever after,” Linnet said.
“Happily ever after,” Myna echoed, believing in the fairy tale.
“Look,” he said, and pointed to the sky at the geese flying overhead. “Here they come. The first flock of the season.”
* * *
Myna lay on the bed, waiting for Ben to get out of the bathroom, her arms locked firmly across her chest. She was half paying attention to the television, trying to figure out what she could say or do to get him to drop the idea of marriage, when the program switched to a special news report. She recognized the face on the screen. She sat up straight. Pop? He was surrounded by a crowd of people. Someone shoved a microphone in his face.
She turned the volume up. Her father said, “I don’t know.” The reporter, Myna couldn’t remember the guy’s name. Oh, what was it? Hugh something-or-other. He was talking about dead geese and boiling water. Linnet appeared. “Leave him alone,” she said. “He said he doesn’t know.” More words were exchanged, something about removing the birds from the dam. Pop became agitated, calling for their mother, Claire, knocking the microphone out of the reporter’s hand just as the segment ended.
The Sisters of Blue Mountain Page 4